


Story

by JayJ



Series: Golden Moments in the Stream of Life [8]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Emma is Trying to Deal with Her Feeling About it All, F/M, Gold is Poisoned and Dying, Season/Series 02, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 20:24:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayJ/pseuds/JayJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma can't put the novel moment down and wants to read further in to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Story

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! It's been a little while.
> 
> I had wanted to post this story sooner but my little niece decided to surprise us all 6 weeks early so the last couple of days have been super crazy. But here it is finally, and I really hope you enjoy it (And the length!)
> 
> Very minor spoilers for 2x16

There's a story between them.

It started with a dress and ended in a kiss.

Emma supposes it sounds kind of like a fairytale.

But it's not—those had happy endings and happily ever afters—and this…

This was just a story.

One that was plain and simple but real and maybe, at the time, just a little bit cheery and hopeful. In hindsight, it could be construed as a tad delusional, and rather conveniently, full of too many plot holes to make any sense. Eventual character developments had also played its part in its downfall.

But like any story—it did have its moments. Good and bad. Emma tries to focuses on the bad most of the time because its helps but, occasionally, the good slips in and reminds her that it was there too.

In the end, it was a fairytale that really ruined it—several, actually—and Emma can't help but reflect on the irony of that.

But now wasn't the time to be analyzing the text. Things were happening. Emma needed to focus and play her part for them.

They're in the backroom of his pawnshop—Gold, Neal, and Emma currently—biding their time until the epic climax. It's a big deal. Events have been building towards it. So the time has come for the inevitable showdown.

Yet, regardless of the outcome, Emma knows that things have already been irreversibly altered and changed. It's made her feel impatient and tense. All she really wants to do is turn the page, move things forward, and get past this part.

But right now they're stuck and forced to wait.

Emma's absently fiddling with a book when Gold says he needs to make a phone call. The pretty name he chimes through his labored breathes has Neal looking to her for an explanation. She gives it, brief and to the point—her style—his girlfriend—while obliging the now powerless and dying man's wish. Emma dials the number quickly and passes over the phone to Gold.

Their hands touch momentarily. There's nothing figurative about it. A touch is just a touch now. Emma listens to the conversation, though, because she's inherently nosy, she tells herself.

It's a good speech—it's Gold's dramatic monologue to his lady love—so it's flowery and full of those pure and violet ideals.

Emma thinks it's a little out-of-character.

But she gets it.

Gold needed to talk the only person in the world who had and could truly love him (or so he thinks) and who had believed that there was good in him (again, a misconception) and all that pretty and tacky poetry found in generic romance novels.

Emma can't really appreciate this version of Gold.

He seems so desperate; wanting someone in his life who hadn't been broken and crippled by love, someone who could have unyielding faith in its power and goodness.

This Gold required the ideal love interest; whose commitment and influence were unwavering and needed for a redemption arch. And Belle seemed to be the woman he'd cast to fill that role.

Yet there's something about him, probably his recent behavior and ongoing conduct that strikes Emma as being in direct conflict with someone invested in saving oneself and turning over a new leaf.

But that's just her interpretation.

Seeing Gold like this has made him a less dynamic character, in Emma's opinion. He was an enigma before, unpredictable and complicated, but there's something to this simple and needy love that has ruined that once mysterious and engaging appeal.

Admittedly, Emma doesn't know or get Belle. So her concept of the woman may be off. And her understanding of their relationship biased or skewed. But Emma's basing her opinion on the material she's been given and not much else. It's not her fault that Belle has been so underdeveloped and poorly written.

But Emma does get Gold.

He's her point of view character here. So she gets it. Why he needs his Beauty to his Beast. It's all about true loves with them—all of them—and Emma tries not to be derisively critical about that.

Key word: tries.

When it's all said and done—the phone call—Emma decides to leave the room. She's tired and becoming increasingly temperamental. It's made her feel foolish and overwhelmed. And it's got her reflecting on odd and worthless things.

Like Gold. And her.

And the story that goes with it.

It's a single, now insignificant, piece in this ongoing tale about fairytales made real. But she can't seem to let it go. Not completely, and that's becoming a problem.

So her mind is wondering. It does that occasionally. And sometimes, Emma will let it.

_She had bought a dress._

_And now Emma was standing outside his shop wearing the damn thing. It wasn't her usual style—long, with a vibrant yet simple floral pattern paired with a light cardigan—but it had caught her eye and the appeal of his potential surprise had spontaneously inspired her to purchase it._

_That was the point of it, she'd reasoned, to educe and gauge an unexpected reaction from the illustrious pawnbroker whose cool and controlled manner was infuriatingly precise and seemingly infallible._

_To Emma it was a challenge, he was a challenge. Hence the uncharacteristic dress. The anticipation she felt derived from that and nothing else. Risk and unpredictability had always thrilled her._

_The bell rung pleasantly, announcing her arrival._

_Mr. Gold looked up and Emma stills._

Then Neal finds her and swiftly steals away her attention. He seems awkward and out of place—he is—but it's particularly obvious to Emma right now. She's coolly leaning against the wall as he comes to stand before her ineptly, his hands flustered in their movements.

Hands seem to be a family thing—it's so wrong to be thinking about that.

Neal is staring at her, so Emma is staring back. Once upon a time is the metaphor for the profound and heavy tension that's constantly dwelling between them now.

Well…that and a fiancé.

And a story.

But that romance has fallen into obscurity and the abyss of the untold. So maybe it's not that relevant in the grand schemes of things anymore. But Emma's stuck in Gold's pawnshop and it's gotten her reminiscing so its presence is here haunting her and that burden is hers to bear. It is what it is. A minor obstacle to overcome, she supposes. She leans back further, crosses her arms, and regards the father of her son.

"He really…uh—loves that girl. Belle," Neal surmised and Emma thinks he's saying it aloud more for himself then for any other purpose because there's really no point at all to the comment. Neal looked contemplative and conflicted—unsure how handle what he'd just witnessed—but Emma doesn't need him stating the obvious to her. Unlike him, she's been here.

Gold in love with Belle is not a new development.

"She's his true love," Emma finally decides to say in return, selling it—her indifference—and Neal seems to buy it. Nodding as he purposefully steps back and away from her. It's almost sad to think that doing so makes Emma feel more comfortable around him. There was a time she'd never imagined that a possibility. But it was a natural response to life's little choices—his, particularly.

It's an unresolved issue between them but that's another chapter for another day.

Still, bitterness decides to rear its ugly head; pointing at and taunting her. It disappoints Emma that this has become a recurring theme for her. Self-sufficiency and reliance were her default traits—there's no need for bringing them up other than to remind herself that she's suppose to be a strong female character.

Emma chooses to ignore the insecurity.

_It does surprise him._

_Emma standing there, before him, wearing her dress._

_Mr. Gold does a better job of concealing the fact then she had anticipated. Yet there's also a deliberate amusement evident in his features because of it. Which was unexpected and so it mildly irritates her. She'd wanted to catch him completely off guard. Instead it seems she'd unintentionally exposed a bit of herself to him in her efforts to do so._

_As was becoming routine, it appeared, Emma had once again underestimated the man and his subtle influences and insightful perceptions of her._

_She quickly becomes nervous and slightly flushed under his appraising gaze. She can't help but feel as if she'd somehow done exactly what he'd wanted thus pleasing him._

_It's an unknown impression—being near someone who seemed to predict and understand her so naturally. And then, witnessing as that person uses the talent and knowledge to their greedy advantage._

_Emma's not sure how that makes her feel._

_The dress suddenly feels too dressy._

_"Miss Swan," he greets her, catching her off guard. Emma lurches forward gracelessly and steps towards him._

But she's diverged off course and it's not good for the narrative. So Emma pointedly raises her eyebrow at Neal expectantly waiting and encouraging his next bit of dialogue or his exit from the scene.

Ether or will work, she's that indifferent to him right now.

Neal decides to speak, "do you mind staying with him? I need to uh…" he makes a gesture, a twirl of his hand, and Emma assumes its funny hand speak for 'wrap my head around this'

Emma tilts her head at him. Neal's conflicted confusion and obvious discomfort with this plot point makes her further curious about this strained father-son relationship and the back story behind it. But now is not the time to pry and so she leaves it alone.

Instead, she nods her head impartially, conceding to Neal's request, but makes no move to return to the backroom. She needs her own space and stage to balance out her jaded and cluttered thoughts before venturing behind the curtain.

_They had gone to the back of his shop._

_Emma sat atop of his desk as he stood over and examined her._

_Mr. Gold's touch had been gentler then she thought it would be. Emma was so embarrassed with herself that she was blushing furiously._

_Her entrance had played out like some scene from a cheesy romantic comedy and Gold couldn't have looked more amused by it._

_He tended to her hand while Emma had fidgeted and watched._

As Neal makes his exit downstage. The striking and pleasant sounding ring of the bell filters through the room like an ill-timed laugh. It echoes around her but Emma tries to ignore its jovial song.

Instead, she stares at the window; sporadically catching sight of Neal pacing nearby by it. She considers the familiarity of this place and of him before finally taking her own exit through the upstage entrance.

Emma reenters the backroom. A tenacious silence has built against the backdrop of Gold's strained and shallow breathing. She has no desire to suspend it. So with nothing else to do with herself, Emma quietly observes the room.

This place truly was an anthology. Every item had a history and its own tale to tell. It was fascinating now that she could comprehend and appreciate that. Emma wonders casually how Gold had acquired all these meaningful trinkets and mementos. And, because this was him, what illicit and strategic purposes he intended them for.

She remembers when he used to tell her about odd and random items whenever the mood had struck him to do so. At the time, Emma had chosen not to believe a word he was saying and so paid little attention to the details he'd offered.

She regrets that now.

Emma regrets many things that had happened between them. Mostly, though, she regrets getting swept up in story that was fated to end so poorly.

It was almost like a Greek tragedy; this escalating family drama. But, at least, without all those scorned lovers, bloody betrayals, vengeful murders and deaths…

Emma glances at the poisoned Gold contemplating the situation and its circumstances.

…or maybe it was completely like one.

Biting her lower lip, an old childhood quirk when feeling unease, Emma methodically traces her fingers along the rich wood and articulate detailing of one of the many cabinets lining the room. The sensation of the fine and textured surface against the pads of her fingers is strangely soothing to her.

It's a needed distraction.

There are too many memories in this place, in this room, and being here and alone with Gold reminds Emma of that. The thought of it all is almost suffocating her. And then she pricks her finger.

Emma swears under her breath as she steps back and inevitably finds herself standing over Gold. Despite her desire not to, her gaze falls over the ailing pawnbroker. His eyes are closed and so there's no threat of allowing it to do so.

She was still so angry with him for the things he'd done.

There's a part of her that wants to lash out at him because she was stuck here in crisis and he was dying and nothing between them had been properly resolved. The conclusion to their story had been vague and unfulfilling; an obvious ending but one wholly unfinished. And that's what's bothering Emma about it.

All she needed was something from him; an acknowledgment, an apology, an explanation—closure in the truest sense of the word. Emma was waiting for him to say the right things—all the right things—because words were suppose to be his skill; his forte with a touch of flair was his written style.

It's how their story was supposed to go. Gold would say the words and she would play along to them. And then it would be done and each could carry on towards their intended happily ever after.

Yet he was oddly lacking his verbal talents when it came to her lately and as a result she had misplaced her ability to act accordingly to them. It left things suspended in this awkward and constant state of flux.

Was it a deliberate cruelty on Gold's part? His blatant dismissal and disregard for her seemed particularly harsh, as was his ongoing behavior towards her, and Emma couldn't understand what she had done to deserve it.

Gold carried on like nothing between them had happened or mattered.

But why he was allowing things, the parts between the covers, to continue to drag on like this, hovering over the edge but not yet over it, baffled and frustrated her even further.

Before her impromptu trip with her mother things had been cracked and torn—he had endangered Henry—and she was furious with him but it hadn't been completely broken yet. It was still undone, and her time away had left Emma further conflicted and confused about his designs and involvement with her and her life.

What did she mean to him? What was the point of it?

But then Emma had come back, and he was with Belle. And Gold had almost killed her. So that had been that.

Or, at least, in outward appearances it was. For it seemed in this matter neither was particularly invested in pursuing an honest confrontation.

Emma wasn't sure if it was because they were each waiting for the other to make the first move or because neither, with their new found happiness, had wanted to acknowledge its existence and risk the repercussions of its exposure.

This was how their story went—where it now stood—and Emma found herself trapped in the ambiguous epilogue of it; leaving her feeling bitter and disappointed. And, worst of all, abandoned.

Her most prominent character flaw was her overwhelming fear of abandonment. Gold knew this—had found the important details—and that's what made the blow of his actions that much more unexpected and devastating.

It had numbed and crippled her; having to feel deserted and so easily forgotten once more.

Despite everything she had gained since breaking the curse there was still that part of Emma that considered herself damaged and unlovable and thus easily discarded.

It was a common theme in her life's tragedy if the small list of love ones in her life were anything to go by. All of them had left her behind, in one form or manner, and the fact that Gold had fallen amongst those on her list saddened her more then she cared to admit.

And yet a part of her, deep down, that was fragile and childish and maybe a little bit frightened would not allow her to simply take charge and tackle this unresolved tension between them; to end it once and for all.

It was pathetic and pitiful and so against the character she wanted herself to be—the strong and brave hero that shone so brightly in Henry's young and critical eyes.

What would her son think of her, if he saw her like this, saw her true self?

Emma could feel the prickly burn of her chaotic emotions in the corner of her eyes. She blinks rapidly, urging her useless tears away. There was no point of them and she refused to allow their freedom to flow. Not here, and not now. Not with Gold so close.

He didn't deserve them.

She shakes her head trying to clear and realign her thoughts. Deciding that leaving the room again would be the ideal thing for her to do Emma eagerly makes her way towards the door. Her mind set on collecting Neal and avoiding this inner turmoil as best as she could.

What was done was done. No need to keep dwelling on it.

"You tripped on your dress."

Gold's strained voice seizes her like an epiphany. It's a strange thing for him to say so arbitrarily and that's why it catches Emma's attention. She stops and turns slowly towards him.

He's clearly struggling to breathe, let alone speak, yet he seems determined to do so anyways, "and broke a lamp. It was a very expensive lamp."

It takes Emma no time at all to catch on to what incident he's referring to— it's the story after all. Their story.

The start of it.

But it's mentioning here feels too much like exposition. And Emma can't justify the rationale or incentive for it being brought up now. But it is, and so maybe it'll have a point later on in the saga that's unfolding here.

Or maybe it won't be explored at all beyond this—the writing between them has been shoddy at best and pretty inconsistent.

But Emma can't put the novel moment down and wants to read further in to it; so she restlessly walks over and sits on the edge of the cot Gold occupies. Her lower back touches his hip. He's radiating heat. She makes a point of keeping her stance vacant and her eyes distracted by their clustered surroundings.

It becomes apparent that Gold's waiting for her to speak; affix snippets to the moment developing. Emma's weary of him and resigned not to do so but then he's tapping his fingers along her shoulder and tugging her hair lightly.

It was an old habit of his; touching her in seemingly peculiar and mindless ways. The intimacy of it gripes her and her resolve falters. Finally, Emma gives in.

"You threatened to charge me for it," She adds then, "but I cut my hand, so I think you changed your mind." And as she speaks there's a wistful smile playing along her lips where there shouldn't be one.

This wasn't supposed to be a fond memory anymore.

Yet Emma continues, "I never knew if you actually intended to—make me pay the price for it, that is. What you say and what you do always seemed to be at odds."

"Intent is meaningless, dearie, and I liked your dress too much to make you regret wearing it." Emma turns to Gold and sees that there's also a smile where there shouldn't be one.

No—it's more of a smirk and that works better with the words he's saying. He's falling back into character. It makes her feel more at ease, despite herself.

"And then you bandaged my hand with your handkerchief and said I at least owed you another favor for ruining that as well. So I offered you a secret and a smile as a compromise," the unintended tilt of her lips deepens and even brightens, "I told you dirty limericks until you cracked one. Surprised and reluctant as you were"

It had been an honest smile; unplanned and unguarded. Reflecting on it now, Emma remembers being captivated by it, and by him. Because she had never known anyone whose smile was an ulterior motive the way his usually were. So the sincerity of the one she had elicited from him had felt like a true and special rarity.

She had smiled back. That one had been honest, too.

Emma, distracted by her thoughts, barely catches Gold's next words. "Then you, grudgingly, admitted to trusting me more than you had aspired to."

He had been so pleased with that revelation. It seems like he still was. His smugness about it was, and continues to be, infuriating.

"You know…I was actually going to tell you that I'd bought the dress for the evening but I think you'd already deduced that little secret and would have called foul on me."

"It was a pretty dress and too unexpected for me not to suspect it," He confesses.

"Well you did tell me that you had something planned," Emma muses, "But all you did was take me next door for a vanilla cone."

"Who doesn't like ice cream?" Is all he has to say to that, "and it worked, did it not?"

They're bantering, and falling in to old comforts. It's familiar and the ambiance too sweet. It shouldn't belong here, between them, anymore. Emma bows her head, allowing her hair to spill forward and obscure her face from his vision, as the amusement from it fades away.

Gold coughs, has a small fit of them, and it helps to further diminish the lighthearted moment. Emma sighs and tries to embrace the erupt shift.

So it surprises her when it's Gold who tries to hold on to it.

"I saw no future for it. But then you were here and I was happy. I had not expected that." He pauses to catch his breath, "If things were different it would be yours."

Gold was being ambiguous and abstract and too obvious. But they're cheap words. A dying man's words; pointless, irrelevant, and superficial. Said for the sake of saying them and done without regard for their consequence.

Emma doesn't need them, "you're assuming I'd have wanted it."

It's a red herring. And if Gold truly did care he'll understand that and play along to her intentional misdirect. These are the things she needs from him now.

And he does—plays along, that is.

She'd forgotten he was capable of small kindnesses.

But then there's another touch, rougher than the last—insistent, almost—sliding, clawing, down her arm. It seemed he was holding something back while forcing another forward. As if refusing to let this moment progress to it natural conclusion.

He was seeking a particular outcome from it, Emma was sure of that now. But she wants no part of it, or his endless manipulations.

"Stop with the heartfelt confessions. They don't suit you and I'd rather not have to carry the weight of some hollow words you spouted to me when you were delirious, poisoned, and having some sort of existential crises."

Gold eyes her intently, the glow of his gaze luring and enigmatic.

"Don't go breaking a dying man's heart. That's a cruel way to end a story. And I've always had a soft spot for happy endings."

Emma snorts. Gold flinches, one hand still gripping his chest.

"Is this it, then? Is this our long-awaited finale?" She inquires curious yet sharply, "You claim to know the future. So spell it out and tell me how it ends."

"And ruin all this suspense and buildup. I think not, dearie"

There's a heated spark of annoyance in Emma. He's purposefully doing this; editing the scene to play out differently than it needs to. Her sharp tongue is swift in its response.

"It's a crappy story, Gold, and I don't do love triangles. The defining choices have come and gone. There's no crossroad in the horizon and I'm not the conflicted hero here. And we both know you're no remorseful villain. So let's lose the complicated drama. It's time to end this ill-fated tale and move on the next one," there's a quirk to her lips that dispels some of the heaviness of her monologue, "after all, progression is key to an engaging and satisfying story."

"But the illicit love affair is always the most enthralling part, don't you think? It's dark and clever and consumingly addictive," Gold said between staggered breathes, an astute smirk curving along the edges," and it never really ends the way one would like or expect it to. Closure is absent or not given kindly. The lovers will never truly let it come to an end until they are forced to do so. It is beyond them to let each other go completely. "

His words are haunting and foreshadowing in nature. And he knew she was becoming well-versed in reading his words.

But will she play along to them this time?

After everything that's happened, does she even want to?

Emma observes him closely. Gold's dark eyes are piercing, calculating, and steadfast despite his obvious pain and overexertion. She realizes that he's staring at her like he already knows he's getting what he wants. And she gets the feeling that this is the sensation one experiences when falling victim to one of his dubiously convenient deals.

She exhales loudly, frustration evident, "I don't like this story anymore," she admits solemnly, eyes becoming dull and downcast.

Emma doesn't even notice his clammy hand slipping around her wrist until it's too late; Gold's already lifting and pulling it towards him. She could yank it back if she wanted to.

Yet she doesn't.

Even Emma is having a hard time understanding her character motivation at this point. Nothing she does makes sense to her anymore. It wasn't even complicated, it was just bad writing.

Then she ponders idly about Gold, about the obscure things driving him, and about her hand in his. He's urging it upwards and towards his lips; intend on kissing the back of it.

Emma thinks it's a horribly cliché move and not like them at all. But instead, and to her mild surprise, just as Gold's about to lay his mouth against her skin he gently twists her hand around; slowly and delicately brushing his lips along the newly bared flesh of her inner wrist.

Just over her floral tattoo.

"This was the last place…" he murmurs softly, voice distant and lost in a bittersweet memory, "…that I kissed you." His breath is warm and harsh against her. It tingles. Emma blinks.

Like many of their dealings, there was more to this than meets the eye. Symbolism is what kept them hidden and so interesting. Gold was making a deliberate point with his gesture. One only she was privy to deciphering and understanding.

And Emma was starting to make sense of it—all of it.

"The best way of keeping a secret is to pretend there isn't one."

His implicit and foreboding words have Emma inclining her head at Gold resignedly; her long blonde hair spilling around her recklessly as she smiles sadly and perceptively at him.

This was the revelation she'd longed for; spoken so simply and purposefully to her. Gold had sought an ending that wasn't an ending at all, just the set up for a newer and darker continuation if and when inspiration struck.

A secret and a smile—it's tone so different from the last one—is what he's giving her. It's what he wants from her. What he's now offering to her.

It's a risky proposition. It was another story—a sequel of sorts—between them and only them; one involving clandestine and forbidden desires. A cloak-and-dagger tale, if you will. The irony of that is sloppy and blatantly obvious.

Emma thinks it's a terrible idea—one that wouldn't sell—and her smile quickly collapses under the weight of it.

"Why are you doing this," she asks quietly, because she needs to know.

"Isn't that obvious, dearie," Gold asserts flatly, tone dejected, "I'm a bad man."

She nods, unsure how to argue the point. There really was no need to—he was stating a fact to her—but Emma adds a, "not always," anyways because the good can still slip in and remind her that it was there too.

It had existed here, in this very place—Gold's pawnshop—and Emma is acutely aware of that. This little shop was the setting for so many critical happenings and significant encounters. And this was just another one of the many between them.

A heavy silence descends. One interposed by the sounds of Gold's strident and ragged breathing. Emma uses the somber quiet to distract her attention as she gazes around the room contemplatively.

Was this a beginning or an end? The beginning of the end or the end of the beginning?

Emma thinks there are too many ways to tell it.

A slight but insistent rapping along her pulse point catches Emma's notice. It's odd and takes a moment for her to figure it out.

It's a read and a tell veiled under an established habit. Gold's slyly assessing her responses. Trying to make sense of her in an attempt to comprehend and make use of her inner turmoil and unease. And yet, by doing so, he's unintentional made clear his own uncertainty and anxieties.

Emma pulls her hand away. It slips from Gold's hold swiftly and much too easily.

"You're not even in love with me," she decides to point out. It needs to be said but it hurts more than it should to say it aloud.

"Love is fickle and fleeting," he counters shrewdly, exhaling loudly, then tentatively adds, "we don't need it."

"Then this isn't a fairytale."

"Not all stories need to be." It's a rare submission of honesty. It elicits a deep sense of ambivalence within her.

It's a novel feeling.

But Emma could do without it.

She decides that this dreariness has drawn on too long; it's time to move past it. She'd never been one for dwelling.

"You're a horrible romantic." She accuses lightly, rising to her feet.

"Emma…" Gold starts but she's shoving her hands in her coat pockets and turning away.

"Let's stop jumping ahead." Emma advises. The threat of Cora was looming and quickly approaching, Gold was wounded and crippled by poison, and her life, along with those she loved most, was still hanging in the balance. None of this mattered if any of those conflicts were left unresolved.

There were too many obstacles to overcome right now and she needed to go triumph over them alongside the heroes. This part, with her precariously ill-advised love interest and its complicated, risky, and immoral details, could wait.

So she was turning back the pages.

For now, at least.

But that didn't stop her from leaving this part behind on a more hopeful note.

"If we live through this maybe I'll let you take me for a vanilla cone," Emma tosses over her shoulder as the bell rings; cueing her towards the door and past the curtain, "and, if you're lucky, I might even wear a pretty dress for you."

She hears Gold's unexpected and breathy chuckle as she walks away.

There would be time, soon enough, to write this story.

Fairytales were overrated anyways.


End file.
